The house lights come up, and above the hubbub in the aisles one can hear a spectral voice pronounced in awe-filled tones, "The overture...Duel in the Sun..." And thus begins David O. Selznick's nine-million dollar horse opera. Of this pile of cash a very substantial share has been invested in what has been perhaps the most immense hoopla campaign since Thomas A. Edison invented the motion picture. Such an unparalelled barrage of publicity has been such a long stretch of time that quite a sizable fraction of the population already is intent upon seeing the picture, for no particular reason other than having heard its name so many times. And a good many of them are liable to be very disappointed with what they see; not only because it will come as such a letdown after the huge buildup, but because intrinsically "Duel in the Sun" is no great shakes by any standard. And despite his propaganda and his jacked-up prices, Mr. Selznick seems headed for financial disappointment.

No doubt when this colossus was first conceived it seemed the epitome of box office appeal-a Western to end all Westerns, with plentiful portions of Sex to attract most of the less bloodthirsty patrons. Tossed into this menage were a threesome of Hollywood's more expensive thespians-Jennifer Jones as a half-breed done up in some brownish makeup and a number of rather low-necked costumes; Joseph Cotten and Gregory Peck as a couple of millionaire ranchowner's sons, one all good, the other all bad. A flock of other high-priced pieces of cinema talent help add to the expense account, if not overly much to the quality of the film-Herbert Marshall, for instance, though listed prominently in the cast, makes only a fleeting appearance in two or three scenes in the first reel before being killed off.

All the pat old Western standbys have been dragged in; the gun duel in the middle of the streets, the saloon killing, and the fight over fencing up the open range. Perhaps the most overworked angle involved the arrival of the U.S. Cavalry with bright blue uniforms and waving flags to patch things up when a crisis impends. Interspersed among the cliches are a number of bedroom passages involving Jennifer and Gregory, a bunch of mob scenes in the grand old DeMille tradition, and here and there a few small bits of genuine character portrayal. To cap off this two-hour-plus marathon there is perhaps the bloodiest climax in a long, long time-heroine and hero shoot each other full of holes, only to suddenly find that they are madly in love. Bathed in Technicolor gore, they crawl across a pile of rocks to die in each others arms.

Doubtless all this comes under the headings of Spectacle and Epic Drama, and loud and thunderous background music does nothing to detract from this conception. But to the less impressionable moviegoer it will probably seem little more than a glaring example of Hollywood gone hog-wild on the road to nowhere.